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THE MELANIE CHRONICLES

by Kim Golden

Copyright 2012 Kim Golden, All rights reserved. Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com http://www.eBookIt.com ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0735-7 No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

The Start of Something New

In Edinburgh "Miss...? Miss?" Melanie started. The woman sitting beside her grunted and muttered under her breath. Hovering over her was the strawberry blonde flight attendant who'd griped at her for not being able to fit her backpack into the overhead compartment. Now the woman was flashing a smile so bright it was frightening. "A passenger in first class wonders if you'd like to join him." "Him?" Melanie rubbed her eyes and tried to hide the dopey smile spreading over her face. "Which passenger?" But she knew who it was. "Mr. Ballantine, Ms. Jamison." Still the flight attendant wore the false smile of one always pleased to serve. "The seat beside his is available." "I can't afford to pay for the upgrade." She could barely afford the Economy ticket she held. It had cost $600. "So you'll have to decline for me." "Oh no, Ms. Jamison, he's already taken care of that."

They hadn't seen one another since just after Finals Week. That was the agreement: wait until they were in Edinburgh and away from everyone they knew, and see how they felt. During those three months, Melanie had avoided every urge to call him and concentrated on working and spending as much time as possible with her mother and her sister Susannah before for her year abroad. Though her mother supported Melanie's decision to go to Edinburgh, she thought it was a long way to go to avoid an ex-boyfriend. "Crossing the ocean isn't going to make John disappear," Diane said the night before Melanie's departure. "When you come back, you'll still have to deal with him in one way or another." "I need to be away from him. He's everywhere I turn. And he's with someone else," Melanie reminded her mother as they packed the last of her suitcases. "I need to be around people who don't know anything about him or me. Besides, this is a once in a lifetime chance. I get to study in Scotland for a year and experience all of the history and culture."

But there was more to it than that. Damian was a secret she kept buried deep inside her. He was the one who'd first put the idea of a year abroad in her mind. He'd already enrolled and was so positive about a year in Scotland that he'd made it sound like Nirvana compared to another year at the University of Philadelphia. During one of their study sessions in the Irish Reading Room, he'd handed her the Year Abroad program's glossy brochure. It was packed full of enticing photos of Edinburgh: the Castle against a moody sky, charming Georgian townhouses with jewel-toned front doors and shiny brass doorknobs, a mist gathering at the base of Arthur's Seat and the Crags. The more she saw, the more she knew she had to go. He must've seen the longing in her eyes, the desire to escape to a place where she could be anonymous for a while because he urged her to apply. "You're an English major, you of all people should be in Edinburgh--think of all the great writers who've been inspired by it. You could be next!" She didn't want to tell her best friend Maria about Damian yet. The thought of telling Maria tied her stomach in knots so tight and complicated she couldn't

sleep. How did you tell one of your closest friends that the person who caught your fall was the same person she'd coveted for nearly two years? Even though Maria was dating someone else now she still mused about the day when Damian would come to his senses and ask her out. Neither of them had told anyone. Everything had happened so quickly: John dropped the bomb that he didn't know if he loved her anymore and left for Greece with Chloe a few days later, she'd seen the notice in the school newspaper about people dropping out of the international program, then Damian kissed her that night in the library and things had spiraled from there. "I need this, Mom," she'd said with such fierce conviction that she even startled herself. "I don't know what I really want. I just know that I can't be here right now." "Fancy meeting you here," she said as she settled into the comfortable seat beside Damian. "I thought you weren't leaving until tomorrow." "I didn't want to wait," he admitted with a sheepish

smile. "Three months is long enough." He turned to the stewardess and said, "Thanks for delivering her safely to me." "Of course, Mr. Ballantine." She smiled brightly, hovering for a moment as if uncertain what to do. "Would you like more champagne?" "D'you want champagne, Melanie?" "Maybe later, thanks." She said it so easily, though she'd never had real champagne in her entire life. Was it so different from sparkling wine, she wondered? But just then she was too busy masking her giddiness at seeing Damian again to muse over the supposed benefits of champagne. Then he kissed her, lightly first as though he were testing the waters, then again and with more verve. Once the stewardess was gone, he shifted in his seat and grinned at Melanie. "I missed you--I even came by that bookstore where you were working looking for you one Saturday." "You did?" He nodded. "But you weren't there. I asked one of the girls at the Information desk if you were around, but they said you had the entire weekend off."

"That must have been the weekend I went to Virginia Beach with Karen." "Ah, so I can blame her for depriving me of your company." "We had a deal." "Mmm. Not a very good one. We should've just spent the summer together," Damian said and then stroked her hair. His touch sent a whirlwind of electricity through her. Maybe he was right. Maybe if they'd spent the summer together the part of her brain still inhabited by John would've been cleansed. And there would have been no need for subterfuge. "These seats fold out into beds. Did you know that?" She shook her head no. This was her first time on an overseas flight. She'd been saving money since her senior year of high school to afford a trip to Europe. She'd assumed she'd use the money next summer when she'd planned on treating herself to a summer trainhiking across the Continent. Once she and John had begun dating, she'd always imagined him beside her. Where was he now? Was he still in Greece, or was he in Philadelphia again moving back into his room at the

fraternity house? Don't think about him, she reminded herself. He's the past. "What happens when we get to Edinburgh?" she asked. Damian shrugged. "What do you want to happen?" He was holding her hand, massaging her skin with the soft pad of his thumb. "I don't know. I just want to be alone with you," she said. Admitting this to him lightened her. All summer the feelings she had for him had cohabited uneasily with those she still harbored for John. Thinking of one inevitably led to thoughts of the other. "Are you still going to stay at that hostel the first few nights?" She nodded. "I may as well. I don't have access to my student rooms until next week." "Stay with me then. I've got a room at the Caledonian until my flat is ready." She grinned. "Are you sure?" "'Course I am," he said with a perfect Scottish brogue. The lights dimmed. Melanie turned away and looked

out the window. The sky was already inky black. Somewhere below them were land and the Atlantic, and for a moment she wondered just where they were-off the coast of Newfoundland, over Greenland...? She might've gone on wondering, but Damian interrupted her thoughts. He kissed her neck, ran his hand along the curve of her waist and made her body come alive again. Damian enchanted the front desk clerk but this didn't surprise Melanie. Nearly everyone who met him fell for his easy smiles and the smooth way he had of putting everyone at ease. He knew everyone who worked there, addressing the concierge by name and asking after the man's family. Even the front desk clerk knew him. Before they'd made their way to the desk, the staff present all greeted him with, "Welcome back, Mr. Ballantine" and Melanie wondered briefly how often he'd come there and who with. She looked around, taking in the immaculate marble floor, the richly hued wood details and thick damask curtains. In a cabinet by the elevator were souvenirs of the hotel's past: a black and white photograph of a debonair Sean Connery in his younger James Bond

days, programs from an official visit by the King of Norway, a personal note written by the Prince of Wales. She nearly expected someone from the pages of Tatler to breeze past her, some statuesque titled beauty with a name like Hermione Rhys-Jones that'd barely notice Melanie and would stalk over to Damian and plant lingering kisses on both cheeks. But so far the only other guests checking in were two elderly women, both in mud-colored tweed suits and sturdy looking pumps with thick heels. One of the bellhops was loading their luggage onto a trolley. From the looks of it, they'd planned a long stay. And the bellhop, a young man no older than Melanie and Damian, already looked exhausted by the weight of their bags. In the elevator, Damian handed her a plastic card with their room number printed on it. She slid it into her jeans pocket. "How many times have you stayed here?" she asked casually. He shrugged. "A few. Now that my dad has decided to rediscover his Scottish roots, we're here a few times a year. We always stay here and then travel north to

visit our cousins." "Am I the only girl you've brought here?" "No. Is that a problem?" "No, no. I sort of expected it," she said, but a part of her was disappointed. She knew they'd sleep together here and she didn't want to be in the same bed with him that he'd shared with other girls. She was tired of being haunted by the ghosts of ex-girlfriends. That had been a thorn in her relationship with John: traces of his exes were always around them, no matter what. "It's not the same room, if that's what you're thinking." He reached for her hand. "My parents always arrange suites. I didn't want that. We've got a nice room on the fourth floor." The elevator slid to a halt. The doors opened slowly, and they exited. Hand in hand, they walked along the carpeted hallway, the floorboards squeaking beneath their feet. There was something eerie about the hall. Perhaps it was the quiet. She almost felt as though the hotel were deserted for there were no sounds from the other rooms. Was anyone watching them through the peepholes? The hush made her feel as though the hotel was holding its breath, waiting to catch them off guard

and startle them with a haughty laugh or a whispered jibe. She gripped his hand a little tighter. One night when she and Damian had been studying for their final on A Midsummer Night's Dream, he launched across the table and kissed her long and hard. White flames shot through her like liquid fire, burning away the icy core that had formed in her. Maybe it was the play's fairies and their shenanigans that had triggered what had blossomed into weeks of kisses stolen in the library stacks, of quickies on the tables of the library's private study rooms. The subterfuge was exciting and nerve-wracking. How could she want him so much when she still loved John? She couldn't look at John without feeling the sour burn of rejection coursing through her. But when Damian was around he made her forget John, at least for a while. They'd been so furtive. After the first time they'd had sex, they'd agreed it was best to keep this to themselves. "If we tell anyone," Damian had murmured in her ear after that first time, "they'll just make you feel guilty

about not waiting around for John and he'll give me grief about being with you..." Damian was right, of course he was. The more she tried to move on, the less her friends seemed to understand. Though John was already with his new girlfriend Chloe, he'd still reacted whenever he'd seen Melanie with someone else. And Melanie couldn't stop herself from watching him and forcing herself to stare each time Chloe bent in for a kiss. Sometimes she'd caught herself biting her lip so hard she'd drawn blood. Then she'd looked away, silently berating herself for being so weak that she needed to see him at all. It felt like she'd never get over John. She'd lie in bed and feel his touch on her skin, the slow drag of his palm moving from her shoulder, over the curves of her breasts--his strong fingers rolling her nipples hard--the quick dip of his mouth grazing her skin and the moist heat between her legs. She still dreamt about him, heard his voice in her head saying all the things she wanted to hear. She'd wake in the morning with his name on her lips and a dull ache inside her. She was upfront with Damian, not wanting to hurt

him with lies and half-truths. And she told him that she didn't know what she felt for him but he made her feel alive again. She'd expected him to be annoyed, disappointed even that she couldn't just shelve her feelings for John, but he'd shrugged it off and said, "Maybe I'm just your rebound guy." "What if we are together and I'm still not over John?" she'd countered. "If we stay together long enough, you'll forget about John." She hoped he was right. With its thick velvety carpeting, silk damask draperies and imposing view of Edinburgh Castle, the room caught Melanie unawares. She paused at the door, taking in the ornate furniture and the rich fittings, and bit her lip. Damian had already tipped the bellboy and thanked him for his help. Now he slid off his shoes and settled into one of the armchairs by the window. "Everything all right?" he asked. He stretched his long swimmer's body. She nodded yes and closed the door. Her backpack was still on her shoulders and she shrugged it off,

placing it carefully on the floor by the bed. Before she could speak, the telephone rang. Damian answered it, at first sounding irritated by its intrusion but his voice soon warmed and Melanie knew he was talking to the couple whose apartment he'd arranged to sublet during his stay in Edinburgh. She'd seen the photographs they'd sent Damian in an e-mail: it was the sort of sprawling loft apartment she'd read about in the upscale interiors magazines her mother always bought and dreamed over. Subletting an apartment like that cost a fortune; Damian had already griped about the price but also admitted that its location and comfort were worth the money. He'd already done a semester abroad in Scotland during his freshman year and lived in the student rooms, some of which he claimed were grottier than the dorms at University of Philadelphia. He wanted her to stay with him at the apartment, but she opted for sharing a set of rooms with a Scottish girl named Gillian from Aberdeen who would be back in Edinburgh a few days before the term started. "It's better this way," she'd told him. "If we decide to go our separate ways, we're not tormenting each other." He'd accepted her decision, but she knew he thought it

was silly. She'd seen it in the slight raise of his left eyebrow and the tight smile he'd given her. But he didn't try to push the issue. "If that's what you want..." was all he'd said. While he took care of the details with his new landlord, she went into the bathroom, figuring she could use the time to shower. The bathroom was as luxurious as the bedroom, with its shiny marble countertops and basket full of expensive-looking bath products, oldfashioned fixtures and gilt mirror. There were even burgundy damask curtains and blinds hanging at the bathroom window. A shiver ran through her. All of the fixtures were so perfect and shiny she was afraid to touch anything--it was like being in a museum: look but don't touch. Did Damian ever feel this way? She doubted it. He always seemed so at ease wherever he was. And he'd grown up in this world; he didn't need to feel out of sorts in it. She stole a peek at her reflection in the mirror above the sink. Her hair, which she'd tried so hard to tame into straightness, had gone wild and disheveled again, and her tired eyes showed obvious signs of jet lag. She grimaced and stuck her tongue out at her reflection.

After undressing quickly, she turned on the shower and waited for the water to heat up. It had taken a few seconds to figure out how to turn on the shower there were so many handles but she soon got the knick of it. Once in the shower, she let the warm water run over her, washing away the tiredness settling in her muscles. She'd tried to sleep during the flight but it was difficult. Every foreign noise startled her, and then she thought of all the air catastrophe films she'd ever seen--from Airport to Fearless. Even mouthing a few Our Father's hadn't calmed her. Damian, though, had slept a while, unfettered by the jolts and pings and thuds of turbulence. When he woke, he reached for her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. "It'll be okay. You'll soon get the hang of it." She hoped so. She didn't want to feel like a bumpkin, wide-eyed and terrified of every new experience. Maybe that was why John was drawn to Chloe--Chloe wasn't afraid of anything, and she'd do anything just for a thrill. Don't think about them, she told herself and dipped her head under the shower's hot stream of water.

When she emerged from the bathroom, Damian was still on the phone. He smiled at her and said, "I'm ordering lunch for us. Are you hungry?" She nodded. Her stomach had growled fiercely during her shower. "Could we have some coffee too?" He added a pot of coffee and steamed milk to the order then hung up. "Lunch'll be up in twenty minutes," he told her and pulled her over to him. She sat on his lap carefully and leaned against him. "You smell good. Maybe I should shower as well." "I had to get that airplane smell off me," she admitted. Sitting with him like this was nice. She curled into him, feeling safe and desired. She could feel his hand stroking her neck, his fingers brushing her damp hair. She kissed him and tried not to think of John. "Are you happy you came?" he asked. "I am. It was the right thing to do." "You needed a break from everything," he said. "For months you were like the walking wounded. And I asked myself what was the best thing I could suggest that might help you..." But she didn't want to talk anymore. She kissed him again and drank in the taste of Damian's mouth.

There didn't seem to be anything more left to say. "I'm meeting the Lachlans in a few minutes at the Lobby Bar for drinks and to get the keys to their flat. Do you want to join us?" She nodded absently. She was sitting at the vanity table, wrapped in one of the hotel's fluffy guest robes and brushing her hair. Damian was behind her buttoning the cuffs of his shirt. After they'd made love, he'd showered and his damp hair curled at his neck. "Have you met them before?" "The Lachlans? Yes, a few times. The wife went to school with my sister." "Are they... what are they like?" Damian grinned at her in the mirror. "Don't worry about them. They're fine." After the introductions, the Lachlans launched into a flurry of questions about Damian's family and their mutual acquaintances. Neither the husband nor the wife paid much attention to Melanie other than a few polite inquiries into how she was enjoying her stay in Scotland and if it was her first time there.

Damian wasn't oblivious to this. He wrapped his arm around Melanie's shoulder and drew her closer, murmured in her ear that it would all be over once they had the keys. "We'll have dinner at the Witchery," he said as his hand slid up and down her arm, "then we'll take a walk around the city." She nodded, but even being close to him didn't diminish how invisible she felt. Looking down at the simple peasant blouse and new Gap jeans she wore, she wished she'd chosen something more stylish. Clodagh Lachlan was wearing a breezy silk shirt and chocolaty suede pants that Melanie recognized from the pages of Vogue while Angus Lachlan wore what seemed to be the European version of the Rich Man's Uniform: a pale blue checked shirt and immaculately pressed trousers. They both wore the pampered looks of the Idle Rich. "We didn't know you'd have a flatmate, Damian," Clodagh said. She was smiling at Melanie but her eyes were cold and unwelcoming. "He won't," Melanie retorted quickly. "I've got my own rooms at the university."

"Would that have caused a problem?" Damian was stroking Melanie's nape under her hair. His voice had lost its usual mellowness and sounded tight in Melanie's ears. "No, no, of course not," Angus answered with a smile but Melanie could see that they were just backtracking. They didn't want to anger the brother of their friend, especially when he would be lining their pockets for the next year while they were in Antigua. "Of course your friend could stay there with you." And you'd be counting your silverware the moment you came home, Melanie thought with a glare. She sat a little straighter and returned their smiles. Angus nodded at her, but Clodagh focused on Damian distracting him with a barrage of questions about what he'd be studying for the next year. The subject of Melanie possibly living in their apartment wasn't broached again. By the time Angus Lachlan handed over the keys, Melanie was glad she'd insisted on her own rooms. They didn't want her in their apartment. She wasn't one of them. And she was glad for that.

Starting Over

Until She Comes They didn't speak during the drive from the airport. John was all fingers and thumbs, afraid that anything he said would be wrong and that she'd turn and glare at him with eyes as hard and shiny as polished ebony and snap her fingers and disappear. Melanie looked too exhausted to attempt a conversation of any sort. But even with the fog of jet lag cocooning her, she was lovely and knowing that she'd called him and not Maria or Karen or even her mother filled him with a ridiculous giddiness that embarrassed him and revealed itself in the silly grin plastered on his face. Did he look as lovesick as he felt? The late afternoon rush hour had begun an hour ago, and the cars on the Schuylkill Expressway inched along at a snail's pace, punctuated by the irritated tooting of horns and the occasional curse. And John was brewing with impatience. He wanted to be in his apartment with Melanie, to just feel that she was near instead of a million miles away. He longed to be away from everyone else so that they could talk. He should've

guessed that the Expressway would be congested and nerve-wrackingly slow, but he hadn't been thinking straight since last night when she called and told him she was coming home. The midsummer sun glared down on them. A thin layer of sweat shone on John's forehead. Melanie fanned her face with a faded and dog-eared postcard she'd found on the dashboard. Not even the air-conditioning helped. It hummed loudly but the air being pushed out was clammy and warm. Even though her flight landed at 3:20PM, it had taken Melanie more than an hour to get through customs and retrieve her luggage. John had paced the floor of the International Arrivals Hall, sworn under his breath each time the doors whirred opened to present yet another passenger who wasn't the one he wanted. He was scared, and he hated it. Doubt ate away at him and burned in his stomach. He needed to know that she was just on the other side of the wall. What if she'd changed her mind by the time she landed at Heathrow and rebooked her final ticket so that she returned to Stockholm to give Alex another chance? What happened then? He'd bitten his thumb until he tasted blood, then cursed at his own stupidity and balled his

hands into shaking fists. By the time Melanie finally appeared, weighed down with three suitcases and a shoulder bag that kept sliding down her arm and looking a bit dazed, John had nearly worked himself into a frenzy. His hair stood in dark, uneven tufts on his head from raking his fingers through it too many times, the frayed sleeve of his sweater was even more frayed from pulling at loose strings. He'd hugged her a little too long, but he couldn't help himself. And she'd held on to him just as tightly, had kissed his cheek and left a smudge of dark red lipstick that he still hadn't wiped away. A year had passed since the last time they'd been together, and now she looked so fragile he wanted scoop her up and keep her safe. And now that she was sitting just a few inches away, he couldn't stop glancing at her or reaching over to touch her hand or stroking her hair. "Where do you want to go?" They were creeping along I-76, closing in on the University City exit. John turned down the radio and searched for a station playing something other than overly sentimental ballads and pounding hip-hop. Neither seemed the right soundtrack for their reunion.

He wished he'd remembered his REM compact discs. Melanie always liked them, and he was always impressed when she knew the lyrics to every song on whichever cd he played. "Can I go to your place?" She sounded hesitant; she looked a little stunned to even be sitting there. "I haven't even called my mother yet. And I don't want to just show up like that . . ." "You can stay with me as long as you want," John said and eased into the far right lane. She nodded. Paul Young's raspy voice slithered from the radio speakers, imploring his lover to stay for good this time. Melanie leaned forward and turned up the volume, murmured along with Paul Young and kept her eyes on the road. Being with John again, sitting so close to him and stealing glances from time to time, felt so right. Even with the awkwardness, she was glad to be there with him. When I was in the hospital...after the miscarriage, I made a list on a napkin of the people I wanted to see first, she said suddenly. And you headed the list. Id lost Alexs baby but you were the only person I wanted to talk to.

John kept his eyes on the road. He wanted to tell her how sorry he was for everything hed ever done that had pushed her away. Hed tried to so many times and got it wrong. Even when hed gone to Stockholm thinking he could change her mind, hed screwed it up. Hed flown there expecting her to fall into his arms, see the error of her ways but Melanie was still besotted enough with Alex to ignore the fragility of their relationship. Alex was too smooth, too aware of the affect he had on women to appreciate Melanie. Even during the awkward dinner party hed arranged when John showed up, it was obvious that Melanie was a nice accessory for Alex--the exotic African American girlfriend--but she was never going to be a permanent fixture in his life. The other guests, all lithe Scandinavians with names like Jens, Astrid, Andreas and Villem and clad in expensive clothes that were just a little too perfect. They spoke a mixture of Swedish and English out of deference to John and Melanie. Hed sat across the table from them, watching how casually Alex slung his arm around Melanies shoulder, how she turned to smile up at him but his eyes trained on another woman.

Months later, when his cousin Maria told him Melanie was pregnant hed given up on believing shed ever come back to him. Too many things and people had got in the way. But then she called him late one night and whispered from across the ocean that she and Alex were over. The baby was the only thing holding them together and now she was gone...a miscarriage. Any attempts at salvaging their relationship would be futile. All I keep thinking about is you, she said through the distance. I keep thinking about you and the baby we never had. John had listened as she told him how she wanted to come home. She was an alien in Stockholm. She couldnt find her footing, she couldnt see any point any longer in staying. When I hang up, Im going to buy a ticket back to Philadelphia. She didnt say she was coming home to him but hed hoped she was. Even with all the regrets they had, he could not picture his life with someone else. she'd fantasized about John being the father. The baby shed and regretted aborting the child they'd conceived together.

And now she was sitting beside him again and he was giving her sidelong glances while an uncertain, boyish grin lit up his tanned face. She'd missed his tentativeness, how he rarely assumed that he was wanted. Alex had been too smooth, too aware of his own beauty to have the shy boyishness that John never lost, even when he'd seen the effect he had on people. "I missed you so much," she murmured without realizing that the words had actually been said. But she didn't regret saying them, it felt right. "I missed you too." He smiled at her then focused on the road again. They were driving along Spruce Street now, passing their old stomping grounds of Penn's campus. The trees lining the street were lush with dark green foliage in spite of the heavy heat that weighed at their branches. This was where it had all started. Where she'd first met him and known from the very beginning that he was the one she'd always want to be with. His apartment still looked the same, even though he'd tried to brighten it up with a crimson sofa and a rust and saffron-colored rug in the living room. Somehow, the

fact that everything was nearly the same comforted Melanie. She'd been afraid that there would still be traces of Chloe, but John had managed to hold on to the simple charm he preferred. Chloe may have tried to live there, but she hadn't left her mark anywhere that Melanie could see. While John took her suitcases to the bedroom, she looked around, hoping not to see anything that would remind her of Chloe, no forgotten perfume bottles or silk scarves. She glanced in his office at the Wall of Days with its photos of their college days; she was still there, still sitting in that Adirondack chair, holding John's squirming Jack Russell on her thighs and beaming for the camera. Melanie smiled and covered her mouth. Then she followed John into the bedroom and watched as he put her bags in the walk-in closet. She purposefully didn't look at the bed. Perhaps he wouldn't want to rush into a sexual relationship again. Maybe for him, this was all a platonic arrangement he'd offer to any friend in need. Then again, the space between them burned with unspoken, unanswered questions. Each time he glanced over his shoulder at her, she saw those questions clouding his brow, then he'd grin at her and they'd vanish for a little while.

But for the time being, small talk sufficed. "Did they give you any hassles at passport control?" She shook her head no. "It's wasn't so bad." "Did Alex take you to the airport?" "Yeah, it was a little weird, though. It was like we didn't even know each other anymore. But I guess that's what happens when you leave someone and you know it's for good." John closed the closet door and walked over to her. "It would've happened sooner or later," he said and shoved his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. He shrugged then smiled shyly. For a moment, she tightened inside. A part of her was still afraid that he would tell her that tomorrow he was leaving her again, or that Chloe was on her way and that Melanie would have to go away again. But she steeled herself and smiled up at him. Then she did what she'd wanted to do since she saw him in the airport: she slid her arms around his waist and kissed him on the mouth. She pressed her lips to his and felt his open and his tongue trace her lower lip. A little moan escaped. She felt his hands cup her face, the roughness of his fingers on her cheeks and sliding into her hair. He pulled

back and stared hard at her with eyes that she knew held some of the questions she couldn't answer yet. Her breath caught in her throat as she began to undress him. John reached forward and undid her belt, then fumbled with the tiny buttons on her sweater. They both laughed nervously. She wondered if this was what all reunited lovers felt when they knew that the love they'd felt was too great to restrain. The rush of warmth and the lightheadedness, the strange ache to be kissed and touched even when you knew you should take it slow. By the time they were both naked and she could drink him in, Melanie was prickly hot with the desire she'd always felt for him. There'd been nights when she and Alex were together and all she saw beneath her was John. She pulled him to the bed and pushed him down. Before he could grab at her, she climbed on top of him and slid him inside of her and rode him until he bucked beneath her and she'd tired herself out. She'd needed to be on top, wanted to look down at his beautiful face and see that the dark blue eyes staring up at her weren't the cold pale of Alex's, that the honeyhued arm that reached out its hand to squeeze her

breast still had her name tattooed on it in small slanted letters. Each time she leaned forward to kiss him or suck on his lower lip, he held her so tight and so close she thought she'd melt into him. Even though she could feel the jet lag closing in on her and wrapping itself round her like tendrils of wet heavy seaweed, she wouldn't give in. She wanted more. Then she let him take over. He didn't expect it. He wanted it, but he didn't expect it. They made love and then fell asleep curled around each other. Now the sun had gone down and his bedroom was dark. He wanted to see her, but didn't want to wake her by turning on the bedside lamp so he traced his fingers softly over her face. She murmured in her sleep, kissed his fingertips without waking. He pulled the covers up around her and settled down again. When they'd first started dating, they took naps together in the middle of the afternoon and he'd always wake to find her watching him and smiling. At first it had made him feel uncomfortable and vulnerable, but now he understood why she'd liked it: watching someone you love sleep and imagining what they dream,

remembering the things you've done with that person and the silly smile it brings you. In the year that they'd been apart, he'd missed her terribly and regretted that he'd let Chloe come between them. Most of all, he regretted that he'd been so blind to how deeply he'd hurt her and that she'd ever gone away. Maria had been right all along when she'd called him a coward for letting Melanie go. He'd known from the very first time he kissed her in the dark stairwell of her dormitory that Melanie was the one he'd always want. "Do you want to call your mother and let her know you're back?" John was sitting Indian-style on the bed facing Melanie who was still lying down; her dark hair fanned out on the pillow in silky ringlets. She shook her head. "Not yet. I don't want to see anyone else right now. You haven't told Maria that I'm back, have you?" "No," he said and stretched out his legs. "I didn't think you wanted her to know yet." "I like it the way it is," Melanie sat up and crawled over to John. She kissed the tip of his nose. "I almost wish we didn't have to tell anyone where I was."

"We could go away together for awhile. Nobody's at the summer house." "No, I just want to stay here with you." "How long will you stay with me?" Melanie settled onto his lap and buried her face in the crook of his neck. She'd always liked that spot, it always smelled warm and natural. "I don't know. Until you get tired of me or I get tired of you." He grinned and tightened his arms around her. It was late enough in the evening that the street lamps were lit and glowing orange against the black summer sky. Through the open bedroom window came the sounds of the street below: a woman's soft, resonant voice singing a song about the color of the sky; strains of vibrant calypso music, bursts of staccato laughter. John nearly forgot there was a world outside.

Getting It Right

Lily It's almost nine-thirty, and Lily and I are sitting in the backseat of a taxi speeding along the Expressway. We're on our way to meet her grandmother, Nan Cavannaugh, at the preschool Nan has hand-selected. It's a tony sort of place in Chestnut Hill that calls itself a country day school though it's hardly in the countryside. Of course the name and location give it panache, which explains the two year-plus waiting list. My husband's godmother is on the board of governors for the school. Nan cooed this to me on the phone when she told me Lily had been accepted. "Of course Ellie Ballantine pulled a few strings since it's John's daughter being considered and not just any child," she'd said and I imagined her chest puffing up with pride like some bird ready to preen and strut as a part of its mating ritual. Afterwards, all I remembered was how she enunciated John's daughter. And the exclusion of my name unnerved me a little. Beside me, Lily squirms. "It smells funny in here," she

grumbles as she picks at the dusty rose corduroy dress, a gift from her aunt Maria. Lily doesn't like wearing dresses but she knows today is important so she's suffered through having her unruly dark hair combed and pulled back into two relatively tamed ponytails. She's even relented to wearing socks and shoes. At home, she refuses to wear socks no matter how cold it is. She says she likes how the hardwood floors scratch her bare feet. She'll only wear socks if John does so. Lily is a tomboy at heart. Left to her own devices, she'll dig holes in our backyard in search of worms and slugs. John has taken her to enough baseball games that she knows the entire starting lineup of the Phillies and makes up songs about her favorite players. Now that football season will soon commence she's keen to sit in the stands with her father, bundled up in an Eagles sweatshirt and scarf, drinking hot chocolate and cheering for the home team. "Where are we going?" she asks as Boathouse Row disappears from view. She kicks the back of the driver's seat. The cabdriver, a young Jamaican man who hasn't spoken more than two words to us since he picked us up, glares at us in the rearview mirror.

I tap her chubby legs and whisper, "Don't do that, sweetie." "Are we going to visit Nana?" "After we've been at school, yes." "I don't want to go to school," she announces in a voice that sounds imperious coming out of a four-yearold body. "Daddy already taught me how to count and how to say my ABCs." "This will be fun though, Lily," I assure her. "You'll meet new friends there--" "I don't want new friends, I want to go to school with Corey and Moesha." These are Lily's best friends. They live on Saint Mark's Square and go to a preschool just a block away from where we live, the preschool John and I had agreed Lily would also attend. But Nan wouldn't hear of her great-granddaughter attending a school that wasn't in the top ten of Philadelphia Magazine's Best Schools in the City list. She told me we had to start early in making sure Lily met the right sort of people: the right sort of people being these moneyed friends of Nan's and their offspring's offspring. Nan has convinced herself that the idea of Lily going to any other school would hinder her

chances of an Ivy League education. John laughed at his grandmother's worries and reminded her that Lily was only four. But that just led to a long rant on the many pre-pre-school programs we should have enrolled Lily in from the day she was born. "Children should be well-rounded," was Nan's final point on the matter. And our Lily, who neither attends French-immersion play dates nor dance lessons at the Pennsylvania Ballet's children's school, is apparently woefully behind when compared to the rest of Nan's friends' grandchildren and great-grandchildren. "If you don't like it there, then you can go to school with Corey and Moesha," I say, hoping this will be a self-fulfilling prophecy. The brochure from the country day school still makes me cringe. The glossy pictures of preternaturally happy and perfect children, all blonde and blue-eyed like some ber-youth propaganda, in their expensive-looking clothing in classrooms so pristine they were more like film sets didn't thrill me. When I first opened it I scanned the photographs for a brown face, hoping Lily wouldn't be the token black there. Thankfully, there were two--but they were so perfect I wondered where

my Lily who didn't like playing with dolls and who preferred digging in dirt and finding worms would fit in. Our arrival at the school is fortuitously at the same time when the other preschoolers are outdoors for recess. Familiar nursery songs like "One-Two Buckle My Shoe" and "Miss Mary Mack" drift to us over the swish of passing cars on Germantown Avenue. The offtune clang of a trolley bell plants this gothic-looking edifice firmly in reality. Like most buildings in Chestnut Hill this school looks slightly out of place. Maybe it's because it pretends to be something it isn't--old and rooted in the city's history. From the cornerstone I see the school has only been in existence ten years, but the building with its mottled stone faade and stained glass windows would have you believe it was brought over brick-by-brick from the Old Country. And the pretense forces me to smile. John isn't there yet. I didn't think he would be, though I'd hoped his meeting with his agent would end early. He handles these situations much better than me. He grew up with all the trappings of his family's position as a given. For me, it's a burden that I gladly ignore.

Neither of us enjoys the times when we have to accompany his grandmother to social functions but we do it because we have to. I beg off when I can. Today there was no way of weaseling out of it. Lily peers around, her small hand gripping mine so tightly I want to turn tail and run down the street as fast as I can with her in my arms. Maybe she's thinking the same thing because she whispers, "Can't we go back to the street with the ice cream parlor instead?" "It won't take long, sweetie," I promise. "We'll just look around and meet the head teacher, and then we can meet Nana for lunch." Lily mutters a barely audible "okay". Her reluctance gladdens me just a teensy bit. An officious looking woman in her late thirties clips her way toward us. She's wearing a sharp-lapeled dress suit the color of charcoal and black leather pumps, more boardroom than lunchroom. Her wavy brown hair has been cut in an unflattering bob at odds with the sharp angles of her face. She's giving us a thorough once-over, which annoys me. When she is close enough she introduces herself as Ms. Lowenstein and says to Lily, "You must be our new pupil."

"I'm just visiting," Lily states. "Then I'm having lunch with Nana and Daddy and Mama." Ms. Lowenstein titters and pats Lily's shoulder with the tips of her fingers. "Of course you are." Then she focuses on me and asks, "Are Lily's parents coming later for the tour?" "I am Lily's mother," I say in an even voice. "I'm sorry--I didn't mean anything--" "Her father's coming a bit later," I cut her off before she trips over any more words. But she glances from me to Lily, and I know what she is thinking. It isn't the first time someone has assumed that I am the nanny though I think my daughter and I are so alike that everyone should never question our relationship. Lily has my dark eyes, my nose and mouth. She even has my wild hair. From John she has inherited his honey skin and the cadre of her voice. Her smile is quick and charming, liker her father's. She breaks into silly dances whenever the mood strikes her and bites the tip of her tongue when she's thinking. She is so much our child that John often muses he cannot remember when she wasn't in our lives. And yet there is always someone who cannot believe she is ours.

"You have a lovely child," Ms. Lowenstein says. She pulls her lips into a tight smile. I nod. "Thank you." "Ellie Ballantine speaks highly over her." How long will this take, I wonder. Lilly shifts from one foot to the other and shimmies. Does she need the toilet? Sometimes she does this when she's bored, is a spontaneous dance coming? Not everyone appreciates her bursts of dancing. Nan always tries to persuade Lily to sit still "Shall we start the tour then?" Ms. Lowenstein asks now that she's recovered from her momentary lapse of foot-in-mouth. She clears her throat and gestures with her right arm like a game show hostess presenting coveted prizes. She leads us through the main building, pointing out the various classrooms for the older children as well as the lunchroom (which she calls a 'dining hall') and cloakroom. Everything is pristine, just like in the brochure. It is almost too surreal just how perfect this school is with its shiny floors and paneled corridors. The lemony smell of furniture polish hangs in the air. She chirps on, her raspy voice swelling each time she

mentions the Biddles or the Greenfields and their generosity as she informs me of the school's various patrons and how my daughter will fit in. Is she wondering how generous the Cavannaughs will be? Does she assume we'll endow a new set of playground equipment, like the Rowlings, or pay for the renovation of the preschool reading room, which Nan has already mentioned? Lily lets go of my hand and skips ahead. My thumb rubs the spot where her hand has been, still warm and damp. I dread the day when she'll no longer want to be hugged or called "sweetie" or hold her arms out and ask for a kiss. My daughter stops and, over her shoulder, tells me, "They have rabbits here!" "That's right, Lily," says Ms. Lowenstein in that soothing voice teachers around the world must use, "and we have guinea pigs and fish too." For a moment, my daughter looks so much like her father. She tilts her head to one side as if considering the possibility of having rabbits and guinea pigs and fish in one place. The momentary glow of bliss spreads over her face and she bites her lower lip. Has it happened now? Is she so enchanted with this school she's

forgotten about Corey and Moesha? Then Lily shrugs and says, "It's lunchtime soon. Can we go to Nana's now?" "Soon, sweetie, we'll just finish the tour and then we'll be on our way." Ms. Lowenstein clears her throat again and asks me if Lily has learned to read yet. "She's making progress," I say. Lily already knows how to read but I don't want to share this information, at least not with this woman. Every night we take turns reading pages from her favorite book, Ferdinand the Bull. She thinks Ferdinand is a little like her father, since he also prefers sitting in the shade of trees sleeping and sniffing flowers. We walk along a path to the building housing the preschool classes. The young teachers and their charges are in the play area. I am introduced to the teachers, all of whom are younger than me, with names like Megan and Poppy and Cassie. They are slender and pretty, allAmerican girls clad in hip-hugging cropped chinos and pastel sweaters reminiscent of a J.Crew catalog. They gush over Lily but she sticks close to me. She peers at

the other children running around the schoolyard. She grimaces then whispers to me, "There's nobody here who looks like Moesha." By the time John turns up the tour is nearly over. He meets us just as we've arrived at the classroom that will be Lily's if we decide to send her here. Ms. Lowenstein shakes his hand and gives John an appraising look, which he ignores as he comes to my side. We kiss, a quick kiss that promises more later, and then John says, "Where's my sweet Lily?" Lily abandons the Lego set she's been playing with when she hears her father's voice. She runs over to him and attaches herself to his leg. He picks her up and kisses her nose. "Do you want to go to school here?" he asks her. She shakes her head no. "Then it's settled, let's go to lunch," John says with a grin. "I can assure you Lily would receive a top-notch education here," Ms. Lowenstein says, training her attention on John. "We believe in a multicultural learning environment."

"I haven't seen much evidence of that," I reply. From the large picture window we can see out to the grounds. In the preschool group, there are no black children, nor are there any Hispanics. There is one Asian child. None of the staff appear to be from another ethnic group or culture. How multicultural can they be? No matter what Nan or Ms. Lowenstein think, Chestnut Hill Country Day School is not where I want my child. That John feels the same gladdens me. We climb into our Mini and drive to Nan's house. Lily hops up and down in the backseat, singing along with John as he maneuvers the car along Bridle Path Lane. This is how it should be, I tell myself, and then I join in the song. <<<<>>>>

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eBook Cover Title Page The Start of Something New: In Edinburgh Starting Over: Until She Comes Getting It Right: Lily

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